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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28766454">For It Is Good To Be Children Sometimes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotSteve/pseuds/NotSteve'>NotSteve</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Chelsie/Hughie AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Downton Abbey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Christmas, F/M, Family, Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:34:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28766454</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotSteve/pseuds/NotSteve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Christmas 1919. Carson and Elsie make plans to spend the holiday season with their son at Lloyd Andrews. A prequel to The Return of the Native.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charles Carson/Elsie Hughes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Chelsie/Hughie AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2109054</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>For It Is Good To Be Children Sometimes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This took way too long to write. I started a week before Christmas, expecting it to be done by Christmas but I only finished it now. </p><p>Warning: There’s some language used here for people with disabilities. Nothing terrible, but might warrant a warning. Also, this heavily features OCs. Story might be confusing if you haven’t read TRotN.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>For It Is Good To Be Children Sometimes</p><p>Winter 1919</p><hr/><p>Christmas at Lloyd Andrews was always dreary. Decorations were sparce and always bland, nothing like the grand display at Downton Abbey. A grey hue haunted the visitor's hall along with a cool chill that not even Spring could tame. The Christmas season only seemed to enhance its power more. Charlie always complained to Mrs. Shelton about the chill, especially during Winter, but no matter how many logs placed into the fire, or how many layers put on, the coldness always lingered. Perhaps if more people were to come, it might be warmer. And then Charlie would complain about the heat, not the cold. But Charlie wasn't there to complain—and Elsie would certainly keep her mouth shut, knowing there was little Mrs. Shelton or the staff could do about it. "It's the children," Hughie once commented whilst Charlie was grumbling about it. All the children who died, who never grew old, wandering the school in search of something. His remark stopped Charlie from complaining for the rest of that visit. He continued complaining throughout the year, and Hughie never brought up the children to them again.</p><p>"Scrooge doesn't die, does he?" Hughie asked. "I don't think, but... it's what he deserves. Isn't it?"</p><p>"I don't know," Elsie said. The little red book sat on the table between them. Her bare hand lifted the book, and the chill of it sent a shiver down her spine. "We can continue reading and find out, if you'd like."</p><p>"No. It's all right," he said softly. His fingers danced on the armchair where his elbow rested and his shoes tapped tirelessly on the tiled floor below them.</p><p>"Dad's better at the voices, anyway," said Elsie. She placed the book down and rested her hand on the sleeve of his coat. He momentarily stopped his tapping as she stroked the fabric—it was old and worn, and the seams were breaking apart. Nothing a little sewing could not fix, but perhaps it was time for something new. Her hand drifted from the fabric to his hand, soft and cold—he pulled away from her touch quickly. "They're collecting old clothes at the church," she continued. The entrance door creaked open and then closed again; he tapped softer, but it sounded more anxious. "For the poor. I've asked Mrs. Shelton to collect the things you no longer wear..."</p><p>"Are we the only ones left now?" he asked abruptly.</p><p>"For what, dear?"</p><p>"The room, I mean," he said. "Has everyone else gone?"</p><p>Her eyes searched the room. It was almost empty, as it had been their first visit to Lloyd Andrews some years ago—as it would be next week during the Christmas dinner. A woman and a young girl, a little younger than Hughie, sat quietly near the window. "Not quite," she said, turning back to him. They both fell silent for a moment, and she sighed to give something to the cool air between them. "I know Dad wishes he could be here reading to you, but things have gotten so busy at Downton since..." Since the war. Since Mr. Bates was thrown in jail. Since the holiday season. Since many things, really. The whole world had gone mad, and the servants at Downton, Charlie especially, were made to suffer through it.</p><p>"We're having hot chocolate tonight," said Hughie, and Elsie smiled gently. At least he had little to suffer through. That's all that really mattered. "With peppermint. And biscuits."</p><p>"Well, isn't that a treat," she said, making sure her voice told him she was excited for him while also attempting to hide her own worries from him.</p><p>The door creaked open again, and Hughie's head tilted at the sound. Mr. Davies entered with a bundle of books in his arms. Tall and lean, he was very handsome, in a bashful and swotty sort of way—though she would never admit those feelings aloud, and certainly not to her husband or son. His kind blue eyes shone, but they were always hidden behind his round silver glasses which would occasionally slide down to the bridge of his nose. He was about Elsie's age, maybe a little older. The little grey in his hair and the wrinkles on his face made it impossible to tell his real age. Elsie watched as he fumbled and dropped the books onto an empty table nearby. The sound of them hitting the table startled Hughie and the young girl, and even Mr. Davies himself. He quickly mumbled an apology to Elsie, and the woman near the window, before he quickly turned again to his books.</p><p>"Is that Mr. Davies?" asked Hughie, a soft smile springing to his face.</p><p>"It is," confirmed Elsie, watching as the man lifted one book, flipped quickly through its pages, close it, toss it aside and reach for another.</p><p>"Does that mean I can leave now?"</p><p>She turned back to him. His bluntness was something she could never get used to. "Do you want to leave?"</p><p>"Dad always wants to leave when there's nobody left in the room... Or when Mr. Davies comes in—he doesn't like him."</p><p>"That's not true," she lied. Charlie hated being alone in the cold room, and he did like to avoid conversations with Mr. Davies. His progressive ideals made Charlie uncomfortable. She was quite sure the man was a Republican, though they never discussed politics. But she wasn't like her husband; she didn't mind. She rather liked Mr. Davies and his ideas, and even Charlie commended him for all he had done to help Hughie these last few years. He may not like the man but he tolerated him, for Hughie's sake. "And even if it was, I'm your old mam, not your dad..."</p><p>Hughie shrugged, and a slight discomfort settled in Elsie's stomach. "Everyone's waiting for me, anyhow," he said softly.</p><p>The pain in her stomach only grew but she did her best to hide it as she leaned in closer to him. She found his hand again to cease his tapping. Her mouth opened to speak—though, she hardly knew how to respond—but, thankfully, Mr. Davies's voice interjected: "Mrs. Carson," he greeted, and she turned to smile up at him. "How wonderful it is to see you." He paused to look at Hughie for a moment. His head and body were turned towards the exit. "And Mr. Carson..."</p><p>"...was unable to come, sadly," she quickly explained, avoiding his eyes. With Bates awaiting trial and the lack of any proper footmen at Downton, Charlie had taken on more duties than an old Butler should. It was the third time in a row she visited Hughie alone.</p><p>Mr. Davies, the kind man that he was, nodded in understanding. "Well, that's rather unfortunate," he said. "I was hoping to have a quick word with him—er, you'll both be joining us next week for the Christmas dinner, I hope..."</p><p>Elsie thought she heard Hughie huff as he stood, but he masked his feelings well, much like her. "Y-yes," she said, following him up. Charlie had already informed Lord Grantham—multiple times, as he was prone to forget—to assure they would be off that day. Lloyd Andrews' Christmas dinner was next Thursday, exactly one week before Christmas Day, so it shouldn't interfere with the festivities they were to have at Downton. "Is... everything all right?" she asked, though she wasn't concerned in the slightest. Mr. Davies rarely had anything negative to say, if ever at all; their conversations usually centered around Hughie and his studies, and Hughie hardly ever misbehaved. He was one of the good boys, as Mrs. Shelton liked to say.</p><p>"I only wished to gasconade about his son to him," said Mr. Davies with a sweet smile directed at Hughie.</p><p>"<em>Gasconade</em>," Hughie echoed in a questioning tone.</p><p>"It means to boast," explained Mr. Davies before turning his attention back onto Elsie. "He's done exceptionally well this year, Mrs. Carson."</p><p>She found Hughie's hand again and stroked his palm with her thumb. He pulled away again. "Is Herby waiting for me in the hallway?" he asked Mr. Davies.</p><p>"Thompson and Kenneth," said Mr. Davies. "Herby, I believe, er, is with Mrs. Shelton."</p><p>"It's all right to leave now, then," said Hughie. And there was a long pause. Elsie hoped she hid her hurt feelings well from Mr. Davies, but the ache in her stomach only grew stronger. There was a time when he refused to let her leave, and cried whenever they pulled him away from her. She managed a small smile as she placed her hand on Hughie's shoulder, hoping he wouldn't shrug her touch away again. He must have sensed their discomfort, for he added softly, "It doesn't really matter. Not really. You'll be back Thursday."</p><p>"Right you are," she mumbled, leaning down to collect her bag. Again, she avoided Mr. Davies' gaze. What he must think of her—she felt rather embarrassed by it all. And he quickly excused himself and returned to his books. "We'll be arriving a few hours before the dinner on Thursday, just so we can have a little extra time." She placed the copy of <em>A Christmas Carol</em>securely in her bag and let out a hard sigh. "And remember Mrs. Shelton will be going through your things beforehand. It would be kind of you to help her."</p><p>"You sound upset," he told her.</p><p>She sighed, and kissed his cheek. He didn't pull away. "I'm not upset," Elsie told him honestly. She was more so tired. It had been a long few weeks—it had been a long few years. Oh, she was so very tired.</p><hr/><p>His eyes focused on the story before him—the next request from his son, whose <em>friend</em> was insistent he read it. Carson admired the woman's great talent as an author—Elsie even recommended a book of hers once to him; it was nothing special, but he certainly didn't hate it, ifhis memory served him correctly. He really did not think a boy Hughie's age should be reading such material. Last month he requested they read <em>Dracula</em>. "When you're a bit older," Carson told him, and Hughie settled for <em>A Christmas Carol</em>—they began reading it in October, despite its obvious Christmas themes, but due to all the chaos at Downton, they might not finish it until January.</p><p>"What are you reading?" asked Elsie.</p><p>He looked up. She stood at the foot of the bed, her hair down and not yet braided. The chilled air hardened her nipples so they were showing through her cotton white nightgown. He made sure not to linger on them for too long. She had quietly changed into her sleepwear while he read in bed; her nighttime routine took far longer than his own. Carson, too distracted by the book, and other problems haunting his mind in that moment, had barely acknowledged her since entering their bedroom. "A book Hughie wants me to read him next," he said, closing it and placing it beside to a dripping wax candle on the table near the bed. "But... I'm not quite sure he's ready for such tales." She dat on the bed, falling onto it with a hard sigh, and settled her hand on his foot, which was warmly covered in blankets. "How was he today?" Carson asked, though he was sure he already knew the answer.</p><p>"Much the same," she said softly, her eyes watering slightly. He wiggled his toes and she moved her hand in between his feet. "Sometimes I feel more like a stranger to him than his actual mother."</p><p>Hughie could be difficult—especially this past year. And poor Elsie was alone dealing with him. "I'll be sure to have a word with him Thursday," he promised, and she rolled her eyes.</p><p>"That won't help anything, Charlie," she said softly. She crawled up to lay down beside him and he caught a brief glimpse of her breasts, dangling free beneath her gown. Her head found his shoulder while her loose hair found his cheek and eye; he brushed it aside, then scratched the skin irritated by it. "We had good moments with him, didn't we, Charlie?"</p><p>He kissed her hair. "We certainly did." He recalled the stuffed rabbit Hughie attached himself to all those years ago. Wherever he went, the stuffed animal had to go with him—otherwise there would be a tantrum. Carson bought it for him while away for the London season some months after he had been born; he spotted it in the window of some store while taking a quick stroll one evening and bought it. Hughie didn't remember his old dad upon Carson's return home, but he certainly appreciated the gift given to him. He stopped bringing it into the visitor's hall a year or so ago. Carson imagined it had long since been thrown out, by Mrs. Shelton or Elsie, or someone else at Lloyd Andrews. He was now a boy of eleven, nearly twelve—far too old for such a childish toy. "And... of course—we still will, Elsie."</p><p>She hummed at his comment and turned to face him, removing the blankets that covered him from her. He was not fond of the coldness that it brought him, but he did not complain. Elsie's eyes looked tired but not yet red or puffy, so his mind wandered to the Abbey. Thomas Barrow's official return had him feeling a little uncertain. One one hand, he was grateful for the extra help; on the other, the extra help was Thomas Barrow, who was eager to gain the position as Lord Grantham's valet. Mr. Bates would hopefully return soon enough and they could go back to how it was before. Before the sickness. Before Mrs. Bates's unfortunate death. Before the war. Elsie leaned in for a kiss and draped her leg on top of him; she wrapped his arm around her waist. She began unbuttoning his pajama top. And with Jane now gone, they were also short a few maids. He wondered what really happened between her and Lord Grantham—he hoped nothing too vulgar—but, of course, it was no business of his. The lack of footmen was most concerning to him in that moment. Elsie softly kissed his cheek, then moved to his chest, now exposed to the cool air. His hand moved up to her hair as her tongue teased a nipple. He sighed and she moved down to kiss his stomach, her hand resting on the waist of his pajama bottoms. Elsie's kisses became more tinder as she moved further down. Carson's hand moved from her hair to cup her face. Would the Servant's Ball even be held that year? Mr. Bates's trial fell near it. He prayed for a good outcome, but... He shifted his body to let Elsie scoot further down on the bed. He rested his hand on her head as she slid his pajama bottoms down, kissing the skin just below his girth and—and suddenly he realized.</p><p>"Oh—Elsie... you don't have to..." He sat up, attempting to sound composed, for her sake. But he felt himself grow at just the suggestion of it. "I mean, I know it isn't exactly"—he cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes—"your favorite, erm, activity..."</p><p>She grabbed him then, and he let out a small happy breath. "I don't mind it, Charlie," she told him.</p><p>And he nodded his consent and lifted his hips so she could pull his bottoms down to his thighs. His arousal twitched as it met the cool air and Elsie's hand, cold as ice, quickly began stroking his shaft in a slow rhythm—her soft touch sent an inviting shiver down his entire body, and warmed his core. A soft groan escaped him as her hot tongue tasted the tip of him. His hand moved to her hair, pulling it back so he could see all of it, all of her. "Oh, my darling Elsie," he muttered as she sunk further down. He rested his head back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. He felt Elsie part his legs slightly and cup his... He breathed. The new year would bring a new light—more footmen and more maids; Mr. Bates's freedom. And... his he opened his eyes, turned to the table where the wax dripped onto the table near the book. And the candle. Oh damn, the candle. He sat up again.</p><p>"Elsie..." he said, and her pace quickened slightly. "Did... did you blow—out the candle...?"</p><p>"The candle," she mumbled softly, but made no effort to stop.</p><p>He shifted his hips to stop her movements and she lifted her head. "The one in my pantry," he said with a sigh. "I... I lit it before we left."</p><p>She sat up. "What candle?"</p><p>"I'm just now remembering," he said. "I lit it to read some papers. And... and then you came in and asked if I was ready to leave. I said yes and we put on our coats, and I think I left the candle burning."</p><p>"I don't remember there ever being a candle, dear," she said.</p><p>"It was," he insisted. He pulled up his pajama bottoms and started buttoning his top, quickly standing from the bed. "Oh dear God, the entire pantry must be up in flames by now."</p><p>"You're not going back to the house, are you?" He didn't answer, and so she sighed. "If you did leave a candle burning, I'm sure Mrs. Patmore blew it out," Elsie said. Carson fumbled for his shoes in the corner. "She and Daisy were still in the kitchen when we left."</p><p>He glanced at the mirror to tidy his hair and fix the buttons on his top. "I doubt that very much," he muttered as he hurried out the room.</p><hr/><p>The wood in the fire crackled. It sounded almost like rain falling onto the windowpane, except a bit harsher. Carson felt the heat of the fireplace on his back while the front of him felt the chill of the winter night—the uneven temperature was almost unsettling, but the warmth of the cup, and the liquid inside it, heated his core almost as much as the fire on his back. A cup that was not his own clinked with a spoon as footsteps hurriedly passed him.</p><p>Herby huffed. "Damn you, Thompson," he muttered as Thompson exclaimed, "Checkmate!"</p><p>"Does Scrooge really live in the end?" Carson asked. "After all he's done?"</p><p>"He's... he's, he's a rotten, a rotten man, if, if, if... you ask, ask me," said Kenneth. He had a terrible stutter, but his jokes were always funny—if a person had enough patience to sit through them.</p><p>"People like him don't change," agreed Herby. "Not in real life." His voice was high and some might even say girlish; he hated the comparison, though. He was always kind to people who were kind to him first, and sought vengeance on everyone else.</p><p>"Please find a place to sit, Mr. Roberts, or I'll find one for you," boomed Shelton's voice in the distance. "And not with the young ladies—you've bothered them enough today." And the girls giggled in response.</p><p>"The story's pretty, I think," said Thompson, who always sounded sincere. And the chessboard pieces clanked together as they were moved from one space to another. "I like the idea that even the most evil person in the world can have some good in him."</p><p>"All men are Scrooges, I think," said Herby. "My dad—your dad. Hughie's dad, even."</p><p>"Hughie, Hughie, Hughie's dad, dad scares me... me, me, a bit," confessed Kenneth, and Herby laughed.</p><p>"Not Mr. Davies, though," said Thompson. "He isn't a Scrooge."</p><p>"No, Mr. Davies doesn't count," said Herby. "He's... more like us. An unwanted child. A real Scrooge will try to be kind, fail, and move on with his life. Mr. Davies isn't like that."</p><p>Carson sipped his hot chocolate with a loud slurp. It had cooled enough so that his tongue didn't burn at the touch. The chocolate and the peppermint combined enlightened his tastebuds, and the liquid warmed his belly. Loud footsteps that sounded more like stomps drew close to him. Carson could smell it was Roberts—who didn't reek but did not smell clean either. He flopped down beside him, and Carson jumped slightly, spilling a drop or two of his hot chocolate onto his trousers. "And how is the queer and his cripples?" Roberts greeted them.</p><p>"Piss off," said Herby.</p><p>"Carson," Roberts greeted him, and Carson flinched as his cheek was pinched—not too harshly, but enough to make it sting for a moment.</p><p>"Hello," he said meekly, rubbing his cheek.</p><p>"I think I found some of old Shelton's treasure," said Roberts. "In a lockbox under her bed."</p><p>"You went through her things?" Thompson asked, sounding quite shocked.</p><p>"There wasn't much. But there were some old letters from a man called Jack Brigg."</p><p>"So?" said Herby.</p><p>"So, Jack Brigg is a pirate's name, you twit."</p><p>"It is?" said Thompson.</p><p>"No. It's just a regular name," assured Herby.</p><p>"I haven't opened them yet," said Roberts.</p><p>"That doesn't seem very kind," said Thompson. "You should put the letters back where you found them."</p><p>"I'm going to open and read it at the secret place tomorrow night. See if it leads us to any treasure," said Roberts, ignoring Thompson's remark. The secret place was a place that not even Mr. Davies knew about. It was where all the rebel children went after dark once Shelton had gone up for bed. Sarah took him there once, but they left shortly after arriving. He wasn't sure where it was exactly, but it was somewhere outside the school. "Carson, you're in charge of bringing Bennett..."</p><p>"Me?" said Carson. "Why do I have to be involved?"</p><p>"She won't go otherwise."</p><p>"Fuck off, Roberts," said Herby in an angry tone.</p><p>"Mr. Wilson," scolded Shelton from afar. "I do not wish to wash your mouth out with soap again today, but clearly the first time wasn't enough."</p><p>Herby scoffed, and Carson heard him stand.</p><p>"You shouldn't bother Sarah," Carson told Roberts. "She wouldn't like it."</p><hr/><p>Elsie examined the coat folded neatly on her table: red and faded, but still perfectly capable of warming a body. She had mentioned to Mr. Travis about Hughie's old coat, and he was kind enough to let her pick a coat in the pile while sorting out her and Charlie's things. It wasn't much, but it would fit him. And they wouldn't have to go out and buy a new one. A brand new used coat would perfectly suit him. Charlie would complain it was too big and too loud for their blind son—and why are you bothering wrapping it, Elsie? He's blind and he hates having to open presents, she could hear his voice clearly.</p><p>A soft knock on her door pulled her attention away from the attire and onto the man she quite honestly did not want to see. "Should I put out the Rundell candlesticks for dinner tonight?" he asked.</p><p>"As long as you blow them out afterwards," she said snidely. And she turned her attention back onto the coat.</p><p>The door closed but she still felt his presence.</p><p>"I've admitted my faults to you, Elsie," he said, "and I've apologized for them multiple times."</p><p>She huffed as she smoothed out the wrinkles on the coat. "It... irks me to no end that you choose being butler over being my husband, or even father to our only child." She turned to him again. He looked pale, possibly sickly—almost like a lost little puppy. She didn't feel like she was being too harsh, but perhaps she was. "I just wish I wasn't becoming a stranger to my own son... and I wish I could be with my husband without worrying about a house that isn't ours."</p><p>"I know," he said, but he made no effort to comfort her; they were working, after all.</p><p>"I only wish things were different. That's all, Charlie."</p><p>Another knock on the door brought Mrs. Patmore inside. She hesitated when she saw Charlie. "You're busy?" she said to Elsie.</p><p>"No, no," said Elsie. "What is it, Mrs. Patmore?"</p><p>"I... I need to get into the store cupboard," she said hesitantly. And Elsie nodded as she stood. "You know, an extra key wouldn't be so bad, would it?"</p><p>Elsie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. They were friends, Mrs. Patmore and her, but sometimes the woman could be so exhausting. "Excuse me, Mr. Carson," she said as she followed the cook out.</p><hr/><p>"So, so... the King, he's, he's not even... even, even, even British?" said Kenneth.</p><p>"Well, he is British. Technically," said Mr. Davies. "Remember the difference between nationality and ethnicity. His father may be German and his mother may be Danish, but he was born here, just like you. Hughie's mother may be Scottish, but we call Hughie British—because he was born here. And he's more immersed in this culture than he is with his Scottish heritage."</p><p>"If the Kaiser was the King's cousin, why did he bomb him?" asked Thompson.</p><p>"I'd certainly like to bomb a few family members," muttered Herby beside Hughie.</p><p>"That's what happens sometimes," explained Mr. Davies. "The world is never meant to stay the same—old values shift, or sometimes they change entirely and new ones take over. An ally today could become an enemy tomorrow... or an enemy could become a friend."</p><p>"You ought to be teaching the future Kings of England, Mr. Davies," said Thompson.</p><p>"While I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Reid," said Mr. Davies with a slight chuckle, "I doubt they would accept my credentials." His voice was soft and inviting, and he always spoke to everyone as if they were his equal. That's what Carson liked most about him. He was never talking about him or over him; he was always talking <em>to</em> him, and others. He would surely treat old King George the same way he treated an eleven year old blind boy. "Now, it is always a pleasure learning with you boys, but I really must get on." He fell silent, but Carson could not here any footsteps walking away from them. "Oh, erm, first, Mr. Carson, might I have a word?"</p><p>"What is it?" he said softly, as Mr. Davies' gentle hand guided him away from his friends. They were in his classroom now—Carson heard Mr. Davies click the door closed behind them.</p><p>"I wanted to discuss what happened the other day," he said.</p><p>"What happened?"</p><p>"Well," he said gently, "you were very rude to your mother..." He cleared his throat, and his feet squeaked on the floor. "I know it's not my place, but—"</p><p>"But nothing," he said, and he tried not to sound too harsh. "They'll be like the rest of them soon enough." It was true. Dad wasn't even coming anymore and Mam was visiting less and less. Soon even she would stop coming altogether. Roberts said it was just how things were at Lloyd Andrews—and Herby, perhaps for the first time ever, agreed with him. It was the school for unwanted children, after all. He heard Mr. Davies sigh. "It's fine," Hughie tried to reassure him. "I don't mind. Not really." Dad didn't even like him—he only tolerated him, for the sake of duty, and maybe Mam—while Mam's love for him was probably only guilt of his existence—the guilt of birthing such a monster into the world. "I shouldn't even bother with them anymore—that's what Roberts tells me."</p><p>"Mr. Roberts is prone to setting bedrooms and barns on fire—anything flammable, really," said Mr. Davies. "I would strongly advise not taking any advice from him any time soon." And he paused for a quick moment. "I know you don't believe me, but you are more than ready to leave Lloyd Andrews."</p><p>"I'm comfortable here," said Hughie softly. "And I know I won't be out there—with them."</p><p>"Life isn't about being comfortable, Hughie," said Mr. Davies. "It's about learning how to manage the discomfort in one's own life."</p><p>"But... I don't know how to do that."</p><p>"No one really knows how," said Mr. Davies. "I will say, some people are better at hiding it than others, but... for the most part, we're all on the same boat here."</p><p>Hughie sighed. "You should know, my dad... well, he doesn't like you very much—or me, for that matter." He reached his hand out for the door; finding the smooth round knob, he turned it. The door opened and he could hear the voices of his friends in the distance.</p><p>Mr. Davies sighed again. "Wait—that wasn't why I asked to speak to you," he said, and placed in Hughie's hands was something rectangular and slightly heavy. The edges felt bumpy and made of metal while everywhere else felt like glass. "Mrs. Shelton did indeed have an extra frame for you to use..."</p><p>"Thanks," said Hughie softly as he turned to leave. "But..." But it wasn't worth it. None of it was. Not really. He just didn't understand. "But... er, thanks."</p><hr/><p>Carson entered her sitting room with her coat draped on one arm and his hat in his hand, pressed against his belly. She sat at her small desk, writing something down in her little leather book. He cleared his throat to get her attention, and she turned to him. She examined her coat in his arms. "I... thought we'd sleep at the cottage tonight," he explained.</p><p>She went back to writing. "Do you think you can spare the time? And are you sure there isn't a candle you've forgotten?"</p><p>He cleared his throat and turned to make sure no one was lingering over his shoulder or eavesdropping nearby—Thomas Barrow was not a man he trusted his secrets with, nor Miss O'Brien. He dropped his hat down onto her table and closed the door. "I, er, wish to make up for my little blunder the other night," he said. "It means an early morning for us tomorrow, but..." He trailed off, his eyes drifting to the dull light beside her. Would they be discussing candlelights for the rest of the year? There were enough problems going on at the house already, inside and out; a quarrel with his wife was the last thing he needed—or wanted. He sighed. "I only wish to make amends, Elsie."</p><p>Placing her pen down, she turned to him again. "It's not you who I'm angry at, Charlie," Elsie confessed. He must have made a face, for she added, "Well, you're not the only one who angers me—"</p><p>"I told you I'd speak with him Thursday," he said to her formally. "His behavior the other day was..."</p><p>"...was perfectly justified," she said. "You've been so busy, you haven't even seen him since September, Charlie. And I'm only able to be with him once a month—God knows what this new year has in store..." And he quickly avoided her gaze, feeling something in his stomach turn. He was hoping he would have more time to figure out how to tell her. "But... you're in correspondence with God, are you?" He said nothing, hoping his silence would be enough to deliver the bad news for him. "<em>I'm seeing my son, Charlie</em>," she said, a bit too loudly for his taste. Carson glanced at the closed door, hoping no one passing had heard her outburst.</p><p>"Mr. Bates' trial and the servant's ball fall on the same week," explained Carson.</p><p>"That is, if we're even having the ball," said Elsie sharply.</p><p>"And both Mr. Carlisle and Lord Hepworth will be staying at the house. We're simply too busy to have both housekeeper and butler away for a day." He finally found the nerve to look at her again. Her eyes were filled with fire and tears, and guilt consumed his entire core. "We'll see him in time for his birthday, Elsie," he assured. "Not the exact date but—I, er, was going to tell you the other night. Before..." He stopped quickly and her eyebrows rose. Candles and Elsie performing fellatio might be the death of him one day; though, the latter did not seem like such a terrible way to go.</p><p>"Can't anything be done?" Elsie said as she stood and made her way towards him.</p><p>"I could try speaking with his lordship, but I'm..." Her gentle hand found his arm, and he sighed. "I'm not comfortable asking for more time off," Carson said. "We are butler and housekeeper, after all." Butler and housekeeper who are married with a disabled baby; their absence would only bring scandal into the house. Her hand fell to her waist. He opened her coat and waited for her to slip in, so they could be on their way. They could discuss it more at the cottage, away from the whispering ears at Downton.</p><p>"It didn't need to be this way, Charlie," she said, rolling her eyes. "I just pray our grandchildren won't live the same hard lives as we do..."</p><p>He smiled to himself. "I doubt we'll have grandchildren, Elsie."</p><p>They stood silent for a quick moment. Elsie moved closer to him but instead of putting on her coat, like he had expected, she opened the door and touched his hand. "Goodnight, Mr. Carson."</p><p>"I, erm—"</p><p>"As you say, we have an early morning tomorrow," she said. "I think it best we spend the night here. In our own separate quarters."</p><hr/><p>"Careful," said Sarah. Her hands were on his lower back, trying to guide his body down. His left leg squirmed and stretched in search of the ground below. His hands tightly gripped the rusted metal bar above him. The sweat on his palms made the metal wet and slippery, and the harsh winter cold made him shiver. He heard Herby clear his throat gently beside her. "Let go of the handle, Hughie. It's all right to jump now." Carson trusted her, so he let go. He hit the grassy ground with a small grunt and a hand found his arm.</p><p>"Quiet," Herby told him in a loud whisper. "Shelton's just behind that window. If she catches us, she'll have our heads."</p><p>Carson kept silent as he was guided away from Shelton's window and into overgrown field. He didn't know the path well—he had only done it once—so the twists and turns were all fuzzy to him. And they added a second, more sturdy gate to the property, so the adventure was more tiresome than last time. The gate closest to the school had a gaping hole no adult had caught on to, which they squeezed through. But they had to climb over the second gate. His trousers were wet and drenched in mud, his hands were numb from the cold, his coat barely kept him warm, and really all he wanted was to be at home and in his bed—but he trusted both Sarah and Herby could keep him safe.</p><p>"How much further?" asked Herby in a pant. He had just slipped slightly in the mud and gotten his coat unclean.</p><p>"It's just passed these trees," said Sarah.</p><p>"We shouldn't have come," said Herby in a harsh tone. He wasn't one for embracing nature, but he also hated Roberts and everyone who was friends with him.</p><p>"We'll leave as soon as we get the letters," said Sarah.</p><p>"I don't understand why we have to suffer for Roberts's own foolishness," said Herby. "And it might be for nothing—he might have read the letters already."</p><p>"No, I don't think," said Carson. He seemed insistent that Sarah be there—he always liked to show off in front of her. Carson never understood why.</p><p>"Shelton would suffer from it too," she said, "if he reads them to everyone."</p><p>"Well, that's her business," Herby said, and then he sighed. "But I... I wonder what the letters say."</p><p>"Haven't you heard Anthony all week," said Sarah with a slight chuckle. "Treasure maps and pirate ships."</p><p>"He reads too many adventure books," said Carson.</p><p>"I had little faith he could actually read," muttered Herby.</p><p>"This place is hell," said Sarah. "I can't wait to leave next month. And see my brothers again—they all think I've been living on our uncle's farm for the past five months."</p><p>"At least you get to go home," said Herby. "Half of them here will be placed in an asylum when they age out—and the rest of us, we'll probably end up in prison." He coughed—muffled by his coat, perhaps—and Carson could hear children's voices nearby, shouting and singing a drinking song:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'Twas early the next morning he prepared to go away.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The landlord said "Your reckoning, sir, you have forgot to pay."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Oh no", the butcher did reply "pray do not think it strange.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A sovereign I gave your maid and I haven't got the change."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They straight way called the chambermaid and charged her with the same.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The golden sovereign she laid down, prepared she'd get the blame.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The butcher then went home, well pleased with what was passed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And soon this pretty chambermaid grew thick about the waist.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>"I'd give anything to see my sister again," continued Herby. "But I think our pa told her I was dead." Carson shivered. He just wanted to be in bed.</p><hr/><p>He knocked lightly on her door. "Elsie," he said softly, but there was no answer—as it had been for the last five minutes. "May I please come in and speak with you for a moment?" He didn't want a scene; Mr. Barrow's ears were especially concerning to him—though, perhaps Miss O'Brien was the person he needed to truly worry about, given where he was. But no one in the house needed to know their business, nor their sons.</p><p>Anna's door opened some distance away. She appeared to him in candlelight dressed in only her white nightgown with her blonde hair braided. He averted his eyes immediately. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bates," he mumbled. "I just... needed to speak with Mrs. Hughes for a moment..." And suddenly he realized just how risqué he must look in front of her, in front of the entire staff—should they come out and investigate the ruckus he was causing: dressed only in his pajamas and robe, knocking at his lover's door, knocking at his wife's door. His eyes went back to her, and then they quickly drifted to the floor when he remembered her attire. "I, er, assure you—nothing improper has... I, mean, erm..." He cleared his throat and adjusted his robe. "I'll... er, leave it until the morning. Good night, Anna."</p><p>"Good night, Mr. Carson," said Anna as he quickly hurried away, and he was sure he could hear a hint of amusement in her voice.</p><hr/><p>"<em>'My Dearest Katie,'</em>" Herby said, and Carson heard the paper crinkle.</p><p>"You shouldn't be reading that," said Sarah seriously. But then she burst out laughing. "Katie? I didn't know Shelton was a Katie."</p><p>"Should I continue, then," said Herby. They were nearing Lloyd Andrews again. Carson recognized the tall grass, and the smell of it. Herby and Carson distracted Roberts while Sarah went through his bags and took the letters. They left a few minutes later without anyone realizing. And no one was running after them, so he suspected no one knew yet the letters had been taken.</p><p>"'<em>My Dearest Katie,'</em>" repeated Herby. "<em>'My declaration of love for you was as honest as the man your father was, but my duty to Elizabeth has remained unchanged. I must protect her family's good name and marry</em>—'"</p><p>"Stop," said Sarah. "It isn't our business." The paper crinkled again.</p><p>"He doesn't sound much like a pirate," said Carson softly.</p><p>"Of course not," said Sarah. And that was that. Carson didn't think Shelton was a pirate, anyhow. He knew nothing of pirates, but based on Roberts' description of one, she did not seem to fit the role.</p><p>The wind howled like the lost ghosts at Lloyd Andrews and Carson shivered. He tore the back of his coat climbing over the gate, so now he could feel the cool air seeping in. But it wasn't much farther now—that at least was what Sarah said. His mind wandered to what Herby said earlier. Would he end up in an asylum when he became too old? Probably, but he much preferred Lloyd Andrews to anywhere else. None of the others liked to call it home, though; it was more prison than home to them, but their eyes could see what it really looked like. Carson had to rely on his other senses to see it. And it was cold and rusted, and creaky, but also familiar. Mr. Davies told him he should never be comfortable anywhere, but he liked being comfortable. He wouldn't mind so much being uncomfortable at Downton with his parents, but he was certain he would never return there. He had little memory of the place anyway.</p><p>Sarah gasped suddenly and Carson's nostrils filled with cigarette smoke. Smoking wasn't allowed but Roberts and his friends liked to do it anyway. Her firm hand yanked at his arm, forcing him to stop.</p><p>"What—what in God's name are you three doing out here?" said Mr. Davies' voice clearly.</p><p>"Oh—er, going for a walk, Mr. Davies," said Sarah quickly. "Lovely night, is it not?"</p><p>Carson held his breath, awaiting the inevitable explosion. Mr. Davies would tell his parents, and Dad—well, Dad might not come, but Mam's wrath wasn't very nice either. And Shelton would certainly not be happy.</p><p>"Get inside before you catch your death," he said. "Er, go through the front door this time." But Sarah's hand did not guide him forward, and he could not hear any footsteps. "Go on now—before I change my mind and hand you over to Mrs. Shelton."</p><hr/><p>"I wish you'd write him back, Daisy," said Mrs. Patmore. She was peeling potatoes for that night's dinner—mashed potatoes, if she remembered correctly. Daisy was at the sink scrubbing a pan.</p><p>"I can't—I wouldn't know what to say," said Daisy. Her eyes locked with Elsie's for a quick moment before she turned away.</p><p>"What's this?" asked Elsie, though she had an idea. That poor man, losing a wife and a son within a few years from each other. And dead William was their only bairn, much like Joe and Ivy Burns and their son Peter. She hadn't heard from Joe since before the war, but he had mentioned his son was in the army; she wondered if he made it out alive, or if he joined Ivy—God rest her soul—in Heaven.</p><p>"Mr. Mason," explained Mrs. Patmore. "He's written to her—twice now, is it? You should at least send back a reply. Or better yet, go see him—he'll be grateful for your visit."</p><p>God rest Daisy's soul too. When would she realize she loved the lad and that her heart was honest in the end of it? "I've no objection to it," said Elsie.</p><p>And Daisy's face went pale. She dropped the pan into the filled sink and some water splashed onto the floor below. "It wouldn't be right..."</p><p>"Is the tea ready to go up, Mrs. Patmore?" said Charlie calmly, entering the kitchen. He looked at Daisy, silently questioning her little outburst; she didn't answer and picked up the pan again.</p><p>"Yes—one of the maids is fetching Thomas now," said Mrs. Patmore, pulling the unwanted attention from Daisy onto her.</p><p>He hummed in response, examining the tea tray on the counter. He seemed satisfied, but these days it was so hard to read him. He looked over at Elsie and greeted her with a small smile, his eyes glimmering in the dull light.</p><p>"Mr. Carson," she said with a nod, refusing to return his smile. She turned to Mrs. Patmore, who gave her a quizzical look at the encounter. "If you need me, I'll be in my room."</p><hr/><p>Herby sneezed beside him once, twice, and then a final third time before letting out a miserable groan. He blew his nose and loudly sniffed. Carson, on his hands and knees beside his bed, grabbed the small stuffed animal that had lived under his bed for the past year or so—it had fallen underneath once while changing the sheets, and he just never bothered to pick it up—and he placed it on top of the pile of close Shelton was gathering for them.</p><p>"Is this all that your donating? I noticed an awful rip on that coat of yours"</p><p>"I haven't got another coat to wear, Mrs. Shelton."</p><p>"Give it here—I'll mend it tonight," said Shelton, and she grabbed the coat in his hands. "I would like to know what exactly it was you were doing to end up with such a nasty tear." Nearby, Herby sniffed loudly and then coughed. "And how Mr. Wilson got infected with such a terrible cold. But I know you would never tell." Shelton's voice was gruff, but sometimes, if he listened carefully, there was a gentleness there. He wondered who exactly Jack Brigg was to her, and whether he had received that gentleness Carson had rarely witnessed. "I'll fetch you a Beecham's Powder, Mr. Wilson," she continued. "This is all, then, Mr. Carson? Nothing else?" But, like Sarah had said, it wasn't really his business. But he was glad Roberts wouldn't find out either.</p><p>"No, just those things," he said softly, sitting on his bed.</p><p>"You stay away from him," warned Shelton. "I wouldn't want you catching his cold—and just before Christmas too. The entire school will be filled with coughing and sneezing children soon, if we're not careful."</p><p>Her hurried footsteps told Carson she was on her way out. The door opened and remained open—voices of children outside in the hall quickly filled their bedroom. He heard a loud crash, followed by a girl yelling—it sounded like Emily Dance's voice, a friend of Sarah's. And then there was laughter, loud and obnoxious laughter. He knew all too well who that was.</p><p>"You gave away your stuffed bunny," said Herby, and sniffed again.</p><p>Carson shrugged. "I don't use it." There was a time it, and only it, brought him comfort—but he was a boy of eleven, going on twelve, now.</p><p>The laughter outside grew louder until finally it moved swiftly like a virus into their room. A boy called Douglas screamed some profanity at someone, or something, as something hit the ground with a hard bang—Douglas himself, perhaps. They were kicking something around—it sounded like kicking, at least—and it was clashing into something that sounded metal, repeatedly but at a steady pace. Maybe a bed, or a bar. He couldn't quite make it out.</p><p>"Get the hell out of here, Roberts," said Herby in a nasally voice. But the boys didn't listen. They kept kicking and it kept hitting something, and Herby kept insisting they leave. And then finally, after one hard knock, Carson felt the wind of it nearly miss his face and hit something nearby—what sounded like glass crashed onto the floor, and all the boys fell silent for a moment before all their heavy and squeaky feet rushed frantically away, back into the hall. "They... they broke your frame," he said with a sniff. Carson heard Herby's sheets ruffle and then his footsteps on the floor. He placed the photograph, now frameless, in Carson's hands. The edges felt bent and one—the edge on the lower right side—felt slightly torn. "Be careful walking over here, all right?"</p><p>"All right," said Carson softly.</p><p>"Shelton'll take care of it," said Herby, climbing back into his bed. "And Roberts too—if we're lucky."</p><hr/><p>The train whistled and Charlie looked out the window to catch a glimpse at the scenery around them. The winter had turned the greenery dark and muddy but still quite beautiful. It looked far more breathtaking in snow, however. Downton was a beautiful place all seasons, in any type of weather. His eyes quickly wandered to his vest as he pulled out his watch.</p><p>"Don't you start," she said with a huff. The woman across from them glanced up from her book.</p><p>He placed the watch back into his vest pocket. "What?"</p><p>Every single quirk that made him special, that made her love him, annoyed her throughout the entire week. He cleared his throat a few times too many at the dinner table the evening before and she wanted to scream at him in front of everyone. "Nothing," she said stiffly.</p><p>"Are you going to be like this all evening?" he said in a whisper.</p><p>She refused to reply. She hoped she wouldn't, for Hughie's sake. But just looking at the man's face made her want to burst. Why must they always do it his way? She was not one to mingle in politics, but women should have more rights in marriage and motherhood. His hand reached to touch her knee and she allowed for it to stay.</p><p>"The next month will fly by, love," he told her gently—no doubt an attempt to assure her that it would all work out eventually. And, deep down, she knew it would.</p><p>"And is he expected to know we're not coming or should he assume he's just been abandoned," she asked quietly. The dear woman in the cart with them was kind enough to keep to her own business and not watch theirs unfold dramatically before her.</p><p>"No, we'll tell him," he said. And she turned her head to give him a harsh look. "Er, that is, <em>I'll</em> tell him, Elsie." He cleared his throat, his hand moving down to interlock with her own. "Elsie, I..." he began, but he stopped quickly, glancing at the woman. She didn't look up from her book, but knowing Charlie, he wouldn't like discussing such things in front of strangers. He turned his attention towards the window.</p><p>"Do you remember his first Christmas?" she said after a long moment. "He spent most of that day fussing because you lost his stuffed rabbit."</p><p>"<em>I</em> lost his rabbit?" he said, turning back to her. "It was you who left it in the basket..."</p><p>"...which you took with you to Downton."</p><p>He managed a weak smile. "He had it back before dinner."</p><p>"And then he spit up all over it," she said.</p><p>"And all over me too, if I recall correctly." He laughed softly, his hand tightening around hers. She decided not to let him go. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Elsie," he said to her in a whisper. He waited for her response; when she said nothing, he turned back to the window.</p><hr/><p>"'...<em>and so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us Every one</em>,'" read Carson aloud. He closed the book without much thought and placed it down onto the table before him. Carson had little fondness for Dickens and his work, but it was still a nice story to read, especially around Christmas time. Hughie looked pale and tired, and less enthused to be there—Elsie was off with Mrs. Shelton, gathering Hughie's things for the church; they had a large box of clothes already at the cottage.</p><p>"I doubt Scrooge made it up to Heaven, even if he did spend the rest of his life being good," said Hughie, and then he cleared his throat and coughed softly into his arm. Carson sighed. His son's unfiltered mouth was something he could never quite get used to. He quickly reached to check the time on his watch—the dinner would start soon, and Elsie would want to give Hughie his gifts before they eat. "Maybe we can start on the next book," continued Hughie.</p><p>And Carson shifted. "I don't think you're ready for such a story," he told him. "Maybe when you're older."</p><p>"When I'm twelve?"</p><p>He smiled to himself. He would be twelve February—it was hard to believe he was already that old. Where was the little boy who used to sit on Carson's lap, climb into bed with him? "A bit older than that, I'm afraid."</p><p>"Herby read it when he was twelve."</p><p>"I'm not Herby's father," said Carson. "I have no jurisdiction over what Herby reads." He paused, observing him. He had grown a bit since he had last seen him in September. He was still small—he had always been small, from the day he was born—but he had grown some. "Only you."</p><p>He felt Elsie's hands touch his shoulders. He lifted his own hand to grab hers, but she had already let go of him and slid into the seat beside him. He touched her knee instead—as she had been doing for most of that week, she pulled away from his touch and grabbed one of Hughie's gifts.</p><p>"Mrs. Shelton says we ought to be heading down to the dining hall," she said sweetly to Hughie. "But I thought we could do gifts first."</p><p>"All right," said Hughie, and he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a bent photograph. "Mr. Davies took me to get it done—I had a frame for it, but... I broke it."</p><p>Carson raised his eyebrows and turned to Elsie—he needed to be more careful and Mr. Davies needed to know not to leave breakable objects in the care of his blind son—but she was too distracted by the image. It was a good picture, though his eyes were open, and he expected he would owe Mr. Davies a great deal for the photograph. None of that seemed to cross Elsie's mind. She smiled, looking at it with the same loving gaze she had when looking at Hughie, and—most days—Carson.</p><p>"I'm sure we can find another frame for it, right Charlie?" she said.</p><p>"Yes," he said, trying to sound sincere. It was a lovely gift, but Mr. Davies—he was not a man Carson respected; he often put his business where it did not belong.</p><p>"This is lovely, darling. Thank you," said Elsie.</p><p>And then Hughie opened his gifts, which he showed little enthusiasm for. He tried on the coat Elsie found for him, at least. It was too big. Elsie told him he would grow into it. They went down to dinner soon after. A typical Lloyd Andrews Christmas.</p><p>Dinners at Lloyd Andrews weren't as grand as the dinners he served at Downton: the food was bland and it was too loud, filled with voices of rambunctious children, children not as rambunctious but just as loud, and Hughie's friends... he held no ill will towards them. They were good kids, but... he came to Lloyd Andrews to see Hughie, not them. The one with the stutter, he always insisted on speaking and it was difficult to know what exactly he was saying. And the boy with the lazy eye—well, he was kind, but it was hard to look him in the eyes. The only normal one of his friends was the tall one, the older boy, whatever his name was, but he was not there—he wondered if there had been some rift. Hughie hadn't really touched his food, nor had he really joined in on the conversation with his friends. Carson noticed both Hughie's napkin and his friends' napkins lied untouched on the table near their them; he grabbed Hughie's and placed it in his son's lap—they apparently didn't teach proper dinner etiquette to the students at Lloyd Andrews.</p><p>"Where's Herby?" Elsie asked what Carson himself wondered—Herby was the boy's name; he would try to remember that.</p><p>Hughie cleared his throat as the boy with the stutter answered, "In, in, in, in... bed, Mrs., Mrs. Carson."</p><p>"Mrs. Shelton's been keeping him in bed for the last couple of days," said the boy with the eye. "Mr. Davies says he caught his death."</p><p>And as if on cue, Mr. Davies caught his eye and started making his way towards their table. Carson dreaded the conversation that was inevitable; he made sure to put on a pleasant face, for Elsie's sake.</p><p>He stood to shake the man's hand—the hand was limp, much like the man who owned it. "Hello, Mr. Davies," greeted his wife, and Hughie jumped slightly at the announcement of his arrival.</p><p>"Mr. and Mrs. Carson," he greeted. "So nice it is to see you." Carson sat again, hoping the man would move on. To another table, to another child. To his dismay, the man continued babbling: "I'm certain Mrs. Carson has already relayed the message to you that Hughie is doing exceptionally well this year..."</p><p>"And I... still am?" asked Hughie.</p><p>"Yes," he confirmed with a gentle smile, "yes, you still are."</p><p>"I'm happy to hear it," Carson gave a mechanic response. But he truly was happy to hear it. There was a time he feared he might never hold a conversation with his son, and now they had many. But Hughie's academic progress seemed a conversation for Mrs. Shelton's office, not the dining hall.</p><p>Hughie coughed loudly into his sleeve—sounding very much sickly—and Elsie reached to feel his forehead. "He feels a bit warm, Charlie," she said. "Perhaps he should go up to bed."</p><p>He hummed his response as he placed his own napkin on his lap onto the table. He noted the shift in Mr. Davies' stance whilst Elsie guided Hughie up.</p><p>"I'll get Mrs. Shelton," said Carson as he stood.</p><p>Elsie and Hughie were well on their way out the door when Mr. Davies grabbed his forearm. The touch, foreign and most unwelcome, almost made him shiver. Carson's eyebrows rose as he turned to the man holding him in place. Mr. Davies withdrew his hand immediately and cleared his throat, growing pale. "I was, er, hoping... we could discuss Hughie's future here... at Lloyd Andrews."</p><p>Carson glanced down—Hughie's friends, their beady eyes all looking up at them. "I have no intention to be rude, but this is neither the time nor the place..."</p><p>"Yes, Mr. Carson, but—"</p><p>"But we'll discuss it later, Mr. Davies," said Carson, fighting the urge to role his eyes. Elsie would scold him for being so rude, if she were there to witness it, but honestly—the nerve of people. "Preferably with Mrs. Shelton in our yearly discussion of Hughie's academic progress."</p><p>The meekly man bowed his head and allowed Carson to pass. "Yes, er, of course..."</p><hr/><p>"There's a new girl down the hall who speaks only with her hands," he heard Hughie say as he entered the room. His hands were lifted in the air and his fingers danced in the cool air. Elsie was tucking him into his bed—his friend, the boy who was absent during dinner, was asleep in the bed beside him.</p><p>"Isn't that interesting," responded Elsie. She placed a gentle kiss on Hughie's forehead, and then felt it again with the back of her hand. Perhaps it was time to break the unfortunate news to him.</p><p>Carson cleared his throat to make his presence known to them as he made his way towards the bed. "Mrs. Shelton is on her way up with medicine," he informed his wife. She responded with a slight nod, her focus only on Hughie. He let out a small breath as he found a chair in the corner and carried it to Hughie's bed. Perhaps it was time to break the news to him. "Erm, Hughie, there is one important matter that I would like to discuss with you..."</p><p>Carson glanced at Elsie, and she coldly looked away. "I'm... going to see if Mrs. Shelton needs any help," she said softly. She kissed Hughie's cheek and rose from his bed. He waited until she was gone to continue.</p><p>"You know your mother and I have very important roles at Downton, right?" he began.</p><p>Hughie's hands were still up in the air, moving to their own rhythm. "I know."</p><p>"And we've been very busy after the war..." And before it, and during—they had been busy all their lives, really.</p><p>Quickly, his hands fell to bed, atop his heavy blanket. "Yes."</p><p>"Well... you see"—he cleared his throat again, and loosened his tie—"we aren't... That is, erm, we won't—"</p><p>"I understand," said Hughie softly.</p><p>"You... do?"</p><p>"Yes," he said. "I don't mind. Not really."</p><p>He paused, studying his son's expression carefully; he was so often hard to read—but for a second he was sure he saw his lower lip wobble. A weeping son was the last thing Elsie needed. "And... what exactly is it that you don't mind?"</p><p>"You're going to stop visiting," said Hughie in a soft almost distant voice, and Carson felt his heart slither down to his stomach. "It's all right. A lot of children no longer see their parents here—and I've never seen you ever, so that makes it all the easier."</p><p>"Oh, Hughie, erm, no—"</p><p>"He must have caught it from Mr. Wilson here," said Mrs. Shelton as she and Elsie entered the room again. He turned to the boy next to Hughie's bed, who was wide awake and looking straight into Carson's soul it seemed. "The whole school will be filled with coughs and sniffles come Monday, I'm sure of it. It might be wise to leave before you catch it."</p><p>"I'm sure we've already caught it," replied Elsie—her way of saying they were not going anywhere. She fiddled with her hands as Mrs. Shelton placed the medicine on Hughie's bedside table. He noticed her hesitation before continuing, even glancing a few times at Hughie, and guilt consumed him. "Mr. Carson and I won't have the time to—"</p><p>He lifted his hand quickly to silence her. "Elsie, no," he said softly. And her eyebrows rose as his hand took hold of hers. "We'll... we'll find the time," he told her in a soft whisper. And she squeezed his hand.</p><hr/><p>"I wish you would tell me what really happened between you and Hughie," said Elsie. She was in bed already, her book opened and turned to the page she had stopped the night before, watching as her husband inspected the suits hanging in the armoire.</p><p>"I've told you," he said, "I changed my mind is all—where's my grey trousers?"</p><p>"You changed your mind after you've been so persistent this entire week? I don't think," she said with a shake of her head before glancing at the clothes he was shuffling through. "And they're hanging right in front of you, you daft man."</p><p>"Yes," he said in a slight tone of irritation as he pulled out the trousers. "No," he continued quickly, putting the trousers back, "the ones with the white buttons..."</p><p>"You mean the ones you've had since before Hughie was born?" she said with a huff. "I doubt they fit you anymore—I've put them by the door with the other things I'm taking over to Mr. Travis tomorrow."</p><p>"They fit perfectly fine, thank you," he grumbled, hurrying out of their door. But she knew that was not true; he had grown in the twelve almost thirteen years they had been together.</p><p>Knowing their was no sense in arguing with him, she lifted her book and began reading. About half an hour later her eyes were tired and the words on the pages were too blurred for her to see. The candle was burning low, and her husband had yet to return. "Charlie," she called out to him, receiving no answer back. She placed her book down onto the table on her side of the bed, and with a hard sigh—for she was already settled in for the night in their warm, cozy bed—she ventured out into the cold in search of him.</p><p>A small candle perched up on the windowsill illuminated their kitchen in a dim glow. Charlie sat at their table with his back turned to her. "Charlie," she said softly as she drew near. He shifted in his seat slightly but otherwise made no effort to acknowledge her. She touched his shoulder, and he placed his hand over hers, giving it a soft squeeze. "It's time for bed, darling," she told him.</p><p>She moved to sit on his lap but stopped when she realized another occupied that space. It was Hughie's grey rabbit—old and battered, and missing its left button eye. It was included with Hughie's things—but how could she give such a cherished item away to some stranger? No, she would never give it away, but she hadn't found a place for it in the cottage; she was thinking she might put it in her room at Downton, even. On the table was the photograph their beautiful son had given to them, placed in an old frame Elsie had found in a box full of Charlie's things.</p><p>He stroked one of the rabbit's ears with his thumb softly, and then he sighed. "He's growing up, Elsie." And he was right. He was growing up.</p>
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